Guns 'n' Rose

by Robert G. Barrett

  Only that he’d just got one of the biggest frights of his life and on top of seeing what happened to poor little Jimmy, Les would have enjoyed the ride home. The old Norton had a ton of grunt and handled like a charm once you got used to it. Losing his sunglasses in the melee and not being able to protect his eyes didn’t help much either. Les slewed his head from one side to the other as the wind whipped at his face and hair. He switched the lights on just as a police wagon screamed past in the opposite direction, its siren howling and lights flashing. Les hit the throttle and easily went past an old Kombi wagon. After that it was just a few more bends and he took the right turn to Price’s house. Just back from the corner, he switched off the lights, cut the engine and coasted quietly up to the garage. He kicked the stand out, opened the garage door, then pushed the Norton inside and closed it again behind him. After standing the bike up again at one end of the garage, Les threw the whip over the handlebars and went inside.

  Norton’s adrenalin was still pumping and his hands were shaking slightly when he stood in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. It was the same glass Jimmy had been using before they left. Even though his face felt like it had been sand-blasted, his hair was plastered against his scalp and his eyes were red and sore, Les still couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen and been through. He went into the bathroom, switched on the light and looked at himself in the mirror and was surprised to find flecks of dried blood across his cheeks and tiny nicks in his ears. Either shards of flying glass had cut him or some stray shot-gun pellets had just grazed him and in the madness going on around him, he hadn’t felt it. Whatever it was, he’d certainly been lucky again. The face staring back at Norton looked shocked, strained and grainy, not a good look at all, and inside, Norton’s stomach and chest were a volcano of heaving emotions, almost making him physically sick. However, Les didn’t need a beautician or an Alka-Seltzer. What Les wanted was to get out of there and back home. And the sooner the better. He finished the glass of water and started gathering his things.

  The food in the fridge could stay there, along with whatever was in Jimmy’s room; Price could sort that out through the week and the old motorbike in the garage too. The booze went with him because Les knew as soon as he got back to Bondi he was going to have the one; and one more and another one after that.

  He turned off all the lights, made sure the house was secure then went out to the garage and slung his bags on the back seat of the car along with the whip. That was definitely going with him. The stockwhip had probably saved his life. Trying to be as cool as he could, Les opened the garage door, quietly backed the Berlina out and locked the garage door behind him. After one last look at the house, Les slipped the T-bar into drive and split for Sydney. He was going past the high school and almost at Terrigal Drive when he remembered the box of machine guns was still in the boot. Shit, Les cursed to himself. What should he do with the fuckin’ things? If he took them back to the house he’d have to stuff around finding a place to hide them and if the cops came round they still might find them. If they pulled him over… Pulled him over? Any cops in the area, on or off-duty, would only have one thing on their mind at the moment. A quiet gentleman driving a nice new sedan in the correct manner wouldn’t get a second look. It turned out Les was right about cops. As he went past the Avoca turn-off there were heaps of them; along with ambulances, fire engines and media crews, and all heading in the one direction. Les settled back a little and motored on past Brisbane Water. He climbed the hill out of Gosford and was going past the turn-off to Kurrirong Juvenile Justice Centre, where the whole sorry saga started, when Les switched the radio on, pushed some buttons and somehow managed to find 2GB.

  The brawl was news all right. It was news, more news, world news and news in between the news. There were on-the-spot interviews with police, ambulance drivers, paramedics, firemen, eye-witnesses. Already the press was calling it ‘the Broadwater Bikie Massacre’. The further Les drove, the higher the body count rose. By the time he got to Jolls Bridge it was 27 dead and 31 injured. All gang members except for one innocent bystander; an unidentified male standing by the bottle shop. Police had cordonned off the area and made 100 arrests. I know who the unidentified bystander was, thought Norton. And with the wallopers running around arresting everyone in sight, you can bet that’s where I’d be now if I hadn’t got away. Les switched the radio off and went to slip on a tape, but found he couldn’t handle any music. His nerves were on edge, he still felt sick, and every time a police car or ambulance would go screaming past he’d get a knot in his stomach. He kicked the Berlina back to overtake a car towing a boat and, although his mind was going every which way at once, he tried to kick a few things over in his head.

  Bloody Jimmy. He’d been psyching himself up ever since Les had mentioned bikies on Saturday night. Whatever those Tarheels did to his mother, he sure wanted to get square. All the time he was walking around the hotel with the whip, he had that gun in his bag. And as soon as he saw them he jumped up and started blazing away. And he wanted Les to see it too. Maybe he was on a death wish? Maybe the Jack Daniels sent him off. Every time he had a JD and Coke he went a bit spare; bashing and abusing women. Well, he got square, all right. And where did it get him, in his Kirk Douglas, Falling Down outfit? Dead. Blown to pieces on a hotel driveway. Norton shuddered at the memory. Kirk Douglas. Michael Douglas. Whatever. Like father, like son. Stuffed if I know. Anyway, he’s gone now, poor bastard. And I’m only lucky I didn’t go with him. Then as Norton drove on in silence, his runaway mind took another tack. A slightly more suspicious one. It’s funny how Uncle Price and Uncle George never mentioned nephew Jimmy to me before. And how they told me he was only in the nick over a bit of pot when really it was for outboard motors. That’s no big deal, I suppose, but I only found out when I offhandedly asked Jimmy. And it just seems a bit of a coincidence all this going down the same time they got him out. Jimmy could have been doing it on his own, but I just wonder if Price had something to do with it? Him and Eddie. Eddie doesn’t mind dealing in guns. And they both like a shifty earn now and again. Shit, we all do. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

  Norton caught his face in the rear-vision mirror as he watched a car’s headlights coming up behind him. I’m getting a feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye. I’m also getting that feeling I’ve been had—again. Norton’s eyes narrowed as he slowed down for the lights at the Hornsby turn-off and he started thinking about some of the people he’d met at Terrigal and some of the things they said. The lights turned green and Les was still thinking as he joined the other traffic on the Pacific Highway. By the time he was approaching the Harbour Bridge, Les thought he might make one stop before Bondi and catch up with a few old friends.

  A few doors up from the Kelly Club was a driveway with a sign across the shutters saying STRICTLY NO PARKING. 24 HOURS A DAY. OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Les drove straight up to the sign, turned off the motor, and got out of the car. After having a quick look around while he stretched his legs, he opened the boot, took the wooden crate out and laid it on the ground. For its size, it wasn’t as heavy as Les thought and how many guns and whatever were in it, he could only guess. He locked his bags along with the whip in the boot, took the crate by the two rope handles, then walked up to the Kelly Club and knocked on the door. Billy opened it. Standing behind him eating a sandwich was Danny McCormack.

  ‘Les, what are you doing back already? Shit, what’s in the box?’

  ‘Chocolate Surprises,’ replied Les, as Billy closed the door behind him. ‘Is Price here?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re all up in the office. Kerry’s keeping an eye on things.’

  ‘Good.’ Les walked across to the stairs. ‘Hello, Danny.’

  ‘G’day, Les. I thought you weren’t working tonight.’

  ‘I’m not. I just stopped by for a sandwich.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t blame you,’ Danny nodded enthusiastically. ‘The smoked salmon and onion chutney’s unrea
l.’

  ‘If you’ve got a minute later, Billy, come upstairs.’

  ‘Yeah… all right.’

  Norton manhandled the wooden crate up the stairs and into the casino. Being early it wasn’t very crowded. A couple of punters looked up momentarily, saw who it was, then went back to their cards. Kerry, the dark-haired hostess, wearing a smart green dress, smiled over from the other side of the room; Les smiled back then walked across to the office, knocked on the door, carried the crate inside and closed the door behind him.

  George was seated to the right of Price’s desk, Eddie was sitting on the lounge, Price was standing in the middle showing Eddie something in the Sunday paper. George was wearing a dark blue double-breasted jacket, Eddie his favourite black leather jacket, Price looked his usual immaculate self in a light grey suit and matching silk tie. They all looked up at Norton’s knock, then gave a double blink when he walked in and placed the wooden crate on Price’s desk.

  ‘Les, how are you, mate?’ said Price. ‘What are you doing back so soon?’

  ‘I had to cut the holiday short. Hello, George. G’day, Eddie.’

  George looked as surprised as Price. ‘Les, what a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Eddie. ‘What happened to you? You look like you’ve just been bashed and raped by Aeon Flux.’

  ‘What happened? I’m glad you asked, Eddie.’ Before Les could start to come up with some sarcastic answer, Price threw the Sunday paper on the lounge and started jumping up and down excitedly, yelling out to George.

  ‘He got them. He got them. Les, you’re a bloody genius.’ Price threw his arms around Norton’s shoulders and kissed him on top of the head. ‘What a guy. What a bloody guy.’

  Les pushed Price away—not roughly, but firm enough to make him sit down on the lounge next to Eddie. ‘I got them, eh?’ Les said through clenched teeth. ‘I got them? You were in on this.’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ Price looked at George and Eddie. ‘I mean, we all—’

  ‘You were all in on it.’ Norton’s anger was starting to rise. ‘You low bastards. I should have known. You bastards.’

  Eddie looked puzzled. ‘Les, what’s—?’

  Les ignored him. ‘All right, let’s just see what you got for your fuckin’ blood money.’ Before any of the others could say or do anything, Les went to a closet in the office corner that held some tools and other odds and ends. He found a hammer, dropped it and picked up a small pinch bar. Still grim-faced, he walked back to the crate and jammed the pinch bar under one of the pine boards.

  ‘Les, what the fuck are you doing?’ yelled Price. ‘Christ, take it easy.’

  ‘He’s gone mad,’ said George.

  ‘Shut up. The fuckin’ lot of you.’

  Eddie, Price and George sat there looking at Les and looking at each other. They’d seen the big Queenslander throw the odd wobbly now and again, but this was a strange one. Best to let him run. If the worst came to the worst Eddie could shoot him in the leg. There was a knock on the door and Billy walked in. Not quite knowing what was going on, but sensing something odd was in the air, he sat down on a seat alongside Eddie and joined the others staring at Les. Les continued to jemmy the wooden crate. It creaked and groaned and the nails popped with a rasping, dry screech and it was obvious they’d been in there a long time. He jemmied some more wooden boards away till there was enough room to get his hand through; inside, the crate was packed with old wood shavings, pieces of greasy wool clippings and yellowed newspapers. Norton put the pinch bar on the desk, reached in and pulled out the first thing he got his hand on. It was a bottle of wine.

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Yeah. Wine,’ said Price. ‘What did you think was in there, you fuckin’ big hillbilly? Chocolate Surprises?’

  ‘I thought it was guns.’

  ‘Guns? Are you off your dopey bloody head?’

  ‘I… I’m starting to think I am.’

  Les looked at the dusty bottle. It was clear, chunky in shape with a fine, elongated neck and a delicate lace pattern on the glass. The cork was sealed with wax and whatever was inside was a beautiful, rich pink. On the front was a white label with a little pink rose in the corner. Les wiped the dust off and written on the label in old, Germanic print was ‘Father Gunther-Otto Eindhoven. Avondale Muscat Rose. ’38. Lot 2’.

  ‘Anyway, give me that.’ Price snatched the bottle of wine out of Norton’s hand and sat back down on the lounge, cradling it like it was a newborn baby.

  Suddenly, as well as being angry and confused, Les felt lost; deflated. ‘Price,’ he said, ‘would you mind telling me what’s going on?’

  Price looked at George for a second as if they both thought it might be best to get it over with as quickly as possible. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit we weren’t quite fair dinkum with you first up.’ Price’s voice was calm and soothing, almost fatherly towards Les as he spoke. ‘Jimmy is a bit of a villain. A bit. But all that trouble he was in, in the nick, is true, and it wasn’t his fault. So, anyway, he got in touch with me and George and said if I could get him leave for a week and sort all this Elliott out he’d do something for me. He knew I liked to collect wine and he said he knew where this special crate of wine was from when he worked up the Hunter Valley and how he could get it. So I pulled a few strings. Shit! Did I have to pull a few strings! Spread a heap of bloody money around. And here it is.’ Price gave the bottle a little kiss. ‘Jimmy was telling the truth.’

  ‘But why go to all that trouble?’ said Les. ‘I mean, what’s so special about a few bottles of plonk?’

  ‘It’s worth about twenty-five grand a bottle,’ said George. ‘Is that special enough?’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ said Price. ‘This is like having a Rembrandt. It was made by an old German monk who came out here just before the Second World War. He was about the first person to start a winery in the Hunter Valley when there was nothing up there but trees and kangaroos. He made some other wines, then he made this Avondale Rosé from some unique grapes he brought out with him from Germany. He only made four batches and a horse kicked the poor old bludger in the face. Where one case is, nobody knows. One got opened somehow and that’s how the wine buffs got to know how good it is. Some bloke was hoarding another crate and it all got smashed during the Newcastle earthquake. And Uncle Price has now got the other one. I know talking about wine shits you a bit, Les, but you’ve delivered me the holy grail of Australian wine. Thanks, mate, I owe you another one.’

  Norton shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘That’s all it was, mate,’ said Price. ‘Vintage wine. Very expensive vintage wine. But just vintage wine. The bloke Jimmy stole it off stole it in the first place. So it’s doubtful if he’s going to do anything. And the reason I didn’t say anything at first was because I thought you might have got the wrong idea and in case Jimmy might have been half full of shit. Eddie was coming up in the morning to get the crate and have a bit of lunch with you. Then you and Jimmy could continue spending all my money and having a good time in Terrigal, doing whatever it is you were doing.’

  ‘Didn’t Jimmy tell you, you big goose?’ asked George.

  ‘Yeah, what have you done with Jimmy anyway?’ asked Price.

  ‘Jimmy’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ All four voices seemed to echo round the office at once. Price and Eddie sat up on the lounge. George’s face almost hit the floor.

  ‘I’ve just been caught in that bikie massacre at Broadwater. Jimmy got shot. I nearly got shot myself.’

  ‘Shot? Ohh, no,’ said George. ‘Don’t fuckin’ say that.’

  ‘I saw that on TV before I got here,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s all over the news. Were you there?’ Not that Eddie needed to know when Les was telling the truth.

  Neither did Billy. ‘Shit! I saw some of it, too. What happened, Les?’

  ‘It was a horror show,’ said Les. ‘I can tell you that.’

  Les gave them a quick rundown on what happened at the hot
el and how they happened to be there. Jimmy pulling out the gun, the whip, picking up his bag at the massacre house, the two bikies shooting him. Getting away on the Norton, the vintage bike show. It was a bit of a jumble and Les was letting it all hang out, but somehow the others managed to understand what he was talking about. Yet at the same time Les was talking and watching their astonished faces; in between sentences, he kept thinking about Jimmy. Jimmy had been telling the truth all along. When Les asked him what was in the box, Jimmy told him. Bottles of wine. Red wine. He just didn’t elaborate at the time because he was still probably feeling uptight about getting lost and keeping the other two waiting. And like he said, it would go straight over Norton’s head. Then, when Les was trying to be clever and asked Jimmy what he’d have with the wine, and Jimmy said spaghetti at the No Names, that was just Jimmy’s cynical sense of humour. The No Names would be just the place you’d take a $25,000 bottle of wine to eat with a $6 plate of spaghetti on a laminex table. Although Jimmy probably would have explained it all to him when Eddie arrived, he couldn’t be bothered at the time, so he had a loan of Les. Which wasn’t hard for Jimmy. And Norton, in his usual, untrusting, bull-at-a-gate style of thinking, had got his bowels in a great, big, screaming knot again over nothing. There was no gun deal going down with any bikies. Jimmy took the whip to the hotel for that bloke Ian and one of his mates who might have wanted one too. Jimmy was just hell-bent on revenge with that bikie gang, and when the chance came he took it. Maybe he thought he could get away with it in all the confusion. Maybe he was speeding. Who knows what was going through his mind half the time. Bloody Jimmy. You could say what you liked about him, but he had style and he had balls. And it was like that crazy bloke said—he could certainly arrange things if he had to. Maybe he shouldn’t have belted poor silly Megan, but she was a disaster waiting to happen and in a way she was lucky she only got it off a lightweight. One thing for sure, wherever Jimmy was now, he’d be having the last laugh on Norton. Try not to look like a Queenslander, Les. Whoops. Too late, you’ve done it again.